The One Becomes Four
by Contrazione
Summary: Wherein, as one would suspect, the role of the Courier is divided into four characters, each representing one of the major fractions as well as the four primary weapon types. Told in Round-Robin style by the four characters, each of which are completely bonkers.
1. From the Darkness, One

Getting shot in the head hurts. Like, a lot. You might be nodding your head and saying "Yeah, i got shot once. I know what you're talking about." You don't. You have no idea. The bullet, upon entering one's skull, severs nerves and causes the body to experience a variety of unpleasant sensations. For me, it felt like my forth rib was dug out of my torso by a deathclaw, then subsequently sharpened and stabbed into right wrist. Also, my foot fell asleep. So clearly, if you are reading this without having been similarly shot, you have no idea what you're talking about.

After dieing in a ditch for forever and an day (actually it was probably like 3 minutes but it hurt like forever) something dragged me to the doctor's. That was awfully kind of them, although they do turn out to be the assholes who shot me, so i suppose i don't owe them any thanks. Said doctor was a nice, old guy, by the name of Mitchell. I was convinced that he had some horrible secret. See, obviously shifty people have their secrets, but nice looking guys have _really atrociously horrible secrets. _Lots of them involve cannibalism.

He asked me my name. I told him it was Arden. I'm fairly certain that's my name, but as i was also born in a place called Arden, it's entirely possible that i have amnesia. At least I'm aware of possible confusion. Helps me keep my guard up when someone from my past recognizes me. He told me to examine myself in a "Reflectron." Why a polished metal surface wouldn't have sufficed is beyond my level to give a shit. I looked at myself. I was gorgeous. I am often complimented for my modesty. Those compliments are bitter and sarcastic. Unfortunately, the people who killed me looted my unconscious corpse before they left it on some cannibal's doorstep. They had been conscientious enough to leave me the lowest layer of my leather armor, probably because Doctor Mitchell does not treat hookers.

"Hey, where the hell is all my stuff?" I asked politely. Brain damage. It was difficult to form a sentence without saying something offensive.

"Why, I don't rightly know" said Mitchell. God I hated his homespun brahmin rancher mannerisms. I can't even understand how he managed to acquire such mannerisms, as everyone else seemed to talk like a sane person. "You have everything I found you in." I bit my tongue. While I longed to be way the hell out of here, drowning my sorrows in overpriced booze, I also longed not to die of colossal brain hemorrhage. He told me to get up and walk around. I was unsteady, so either the lead to the brain or the extended bed rest had sapped my strength. "Easy does it, now. Don't over do it." Mitchell said unhelpfully. I saw a Vit-O-Matic machine, a Pre-war parlor trick now used by incompetent doctors to diagnose their patient's level of atrophy in seven handy attributes. I sauntered over to it and took the grip firmly in my hand.

Strength 10 : Hercules' Bigger Cousin. That was good. I liked my strength, it let me hit people until they did what I wanted them to. Especially dieing.

Perception 3: Squinting Newt. I was horribly farsighted, and my glasses were missing. Predictably.

Endurance 7: Tough-As-Nails. Good, so I could eat and breath on cue now. Very impressive.

Charisma 1: Misanthrope. I hate this test and the mean things it says about my people skills.

Intelligence 4: Knuckle Head. This test is broken. I'm sure of it.

Agility 8: Knife Catcher. Ok, cool. Nothing too fancy, but I could pull of some trick shots. If I ever used guns.

Luck 6: Stacked Deck. I think this stat is just to balance out incongruities with all the others.

"Huh. Must be some frontal lobe damage." He said. He's going to eat me, I was sure. Damn cannibals, with their cannibalism. I think the Vit-O-Matic just knew that I was a misanthrope, hence the reading, Misanthrope. He took me to a couch and began asking invasive personal questions. He likes to meet the meat.

"All right. I'm going to say a word. I want you to say the first thing that comes to mind." He said.

"I know how a word association test works, Doctor. I've been to the doctor's before. Many times." I said. Snide comments always come to me after the fact. I can't talk to people.

"Just standard procedure. Dog." He drawled on.

"Bitch. By transiton, your mother." I snapped. Brain damage. He didn't react, probably _just to spite me._"

"House."

"That one asshole in the tower."

He chuckled. "So, not so amnesiac after all. Night."

"Shining power armor."

"Bandit."

"Gunshot wounds to the head."

"Light."

"Vegas."

"Last one; Mother."

"Dead."

"You probably know what comes next, right?" He laughed. Each sound have of his laughter came from fuel in human flesh. I am not deceived.

"Yes. Now, hurry on. I have some people who need to die."

"Conflict just ain't in my nature."

"Disagree. Also, ain't is terrible grammer."

"I ain't given to relying on others for support." He probably repeated ain't just to mess with me.

"No opinion" That was a lie. It was actually a confilict of opinons that canceled eachother.

"I'm always fixing to be the center of attention."

"Agree."

"I'm slow to embrace new ideas."

"Strongly disagree."

"I charge in to deal with my problems head-on."

"Strongly agree. And now for inkblots?" I asked. I have taken this test before. Many, many times.

"Yes." He held up an inkblot, it looked like an inkblot. "It's an inkblot. It looks like an inkblot." I said. He held up another. It was a sword in a stone. The next was a spade.

"Well, that about does it. Here's your results, tell me if anything looks off."

It didn't. Reckless, headstrong, rational but slow to trust. I've seen these results. I marked off the medical history forms too. Nearsightedness and an itchy trigger finger. "Hey, Doctor? Who, exactly, was the person responsible for the new fold in my skull?" I asked. I was in a murderous mood.

"It was this fella in a checker suit, and some Great Khan henchman. Apparently you were the wrong lady, and the guy with the 'good package' was already somewhere else. The Khans dumped you here when they realized their mistake. What all were you taking in that package."

I thought back. It was a Snow-globe for Mr. House, Pre-war millionaire and professional pain in the ass. Still, the guy who offered it to me offered so many caps I couldn't say no. Too many, even.

"Doctor, I think I have to go. Now. I was clearly framed and there's someone who needs to pay up. Do you have any clue where he might have gone?" I asked, fire in my eyes. Metaphorically speaking.

"'Fraid not, little lady. Maybe you could ask someone else around town? We have lots of knowledgeable folks 'round these parts."

"I've got to go. Now. I'll figure it out in Primm or somewhere. Thanks for the medical support, have a nice life." And then I was out. He probably spent that whole evening hungry. Sucker.


	2. From Many, One

I would like to formally state the Doc Mitchell of Goodsprings, Nevada, is not, has never been, and will never be, a cannibal.

Me, Calabasas? I am. I have been ever since one of the casino people swindled me when I was there on leave. I don't trust the casino people nowadays. They don't trust me either. I count cards. That was why I was in the fancy dinner where they serve bona-fide human flesh. It was a big secret. I wasn't technically allowed to leave the casino without swearing to secrecy. I jumped out a window and ran. Those White Gloves are far too fancy to slum it out in Freeside. I am not.

But you probably don't really care. After I broke the bank at the Atomic Wrangler, I sauntered back to somewhere NCR had people stationed, so they wouldn't kill me desertation. NCR is tough. They don't take shit from anybody. I wound up right outside of Primm, where a bunch of people were discovering new and exciting ways to do absolutely nothing. I was a bit in awe of them. So, after maybe a week of drinking, telling old war stories (of which precious few of us actually had), and maybe every so often betting some guy that he couldn't shoot at the Powder Gangers from however long away, we saw someone coming through. Nobody came through anymore. I looked at said person through my fancy binoculars. Clearly, it was a woman. Also, she was practically naked. She wasn't wearing any shoes. That was good. People joined the NCR sometimes purely because the recruit's outfit included some shoes.

"Oi! Miss, stay to this side. Staying to the other side is going to get you killed!" I yelled. She made a rude hand gesture, and stayed way too much on the other side. She had red hair. It was flowing, Godiva style. It was impractically long. That was bad. She wouldn't want to cut her hair to join up.

"Hey, Cal? What you looking at?" said some guy. Hell, I don't even think he had a name. Just "NCR Recruit" to me.

"Some half naked dame is on the wrong side of the road." I answered. I liked the word "dame". It was feminine without being demeaning. I also liked the word "broad" for when I wanted to be demeaning. "I'm going to convince her to join up, or at least stay on the proper side of the goddamn road." I said, hopping down to the highway.

"Miss, you are on the wrong side of the road. I will repeat, please stay on the right side of the road. If you require food, clothing, or medicine, the NCR will happily provide them for you." I said. God do I hate repeating myself. The woman stopped walking.

"I am looking for a guy in a checkered suit. He shot me in the head. You will tell me where he is, or so help me God I will kick you somewhere extremely painful. Do I make myself clear?" She snapped. Obviously enough, she did. I understand that now.

"Jeez, Miss! Wake up on the wrong side of the grave, or something?" I am not clever. This is evidenced by the fact that I was promptly kicked somewhere very unpleasant. My vision swam and I felt the searing, red hot pain of a thousand... oh, I don't even know. It hurt. Really, really bad.

"Roger." I coughed out after I was done rolling on the floor in indescribable agony. "I haven't seen anyone like that. But the head of one of the casinos, Benny, is well known for his checkered suit. I'd look there, if I were you." I seriously cannot believe that nobody else ever made that short mental connection when she asked. You'd think nobody ever went to Vegas on a high powered monorail. That'd be ridiculous.

"Righty-oh then. I'll be leaving." She said as she turned towards the road. A little while down some Jackals had taken over a little building and were now murdering gleefully anyone who came by. I didn't tell her that. Instead, she looked back at me and said "Hey, some of those Powder Gangers are camped out in that town, yeah?"

"Um, yes. Obviously. They broke out of NCRCF and are now holed up in a cheesy Old World hotel with accompanying deathtrap. What's it to you?" I said, bewildered by what, exactly, she was attempting to say.

She shrugged. "D'know. Maybe go in there and wreck a few guys. Save the innocent from subjugation by the atrocious scum of the douche-bag pond. Take their weapons and armor, maybe find a way to improve life in the waste-" she giggled, before losing composure and promptly falling into hysterics. "Oh, Christ, I can't say that with a straight face. But seriously, I'm going in there for equipment."

I couldn't believe her audacity and or bravado (Please choose whichever one _you _find best). Still, as far as I knew, there was no actual rule against this. It was just a really bad idea. "Sure, you could do that. Although, if you're in need of some equipment, new recruits get an exceptional bonus package consisting of-"

"Stuff it. I've heard this shpeel before. Not interested." She interrupted, rudely. "I could do with some NCR backup though. I.E., you're coming along with me. Don't give me a 'but I need to file the paperwork' bullshit, literally nobody cares." She took all of my many arguments and tossed them out the window.

"If it makes you happy, I'll go with you. _Only_, might I add, for the purpose of stabilizing Primm in anticipation of an eventual NCR takeover oh shit." I had said too much. I think. Was it an open secret that we were going to wrest New Vegas from House , or was it some closely guarded military secret? I can't even remember _now_, but it's of no importance.

"Nice. I'm Arden, by the way."

"Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Arden. Calabasas, NCR Trooper, at your service. Begrudgingly."

"Let's kick ass."


	3. From the Lights, One

FREMONT PERSONAL MEMOIRS.

GREETINGS FREMONT. HAVE A PLEASENT DAY

BEGIN TEXT/

Hello. I am Fremont. I have recorded this, as a way of reliving monotony. More than that I'm not quite at liberty to say. Let's begin, shall we?

I was born in Freeside, the oldest of three children. I dislike my siblings intensely. I decided on my eighth birthday that I, quote, "live in a smelly dump off rat meat and so help me god I am getting myself out of here if it literally kills me." It didn't. I left three months later, hiding in some trader's supply brahmin. He carried me all across the Mohave. He discovered me, and became my teacher, surrogate father, and friend. He was killed by raiders.

I wandered around for a while, after having fended off the raiders with a pointy stick

/BEGIN COMMENTARY

ACTUALLY I DIDNT. I USED A PLAMA PISTOL. GOOD THING THE PLEBS ARE NEVER GOING TO KNOW THAT I'M TELLING A BOLDFACED LIE

/END COMMENTARY

until I came to a wonderful place. The New California Republic. They didn't let me in. I didn't want to go in. It was wonderful. After a long period of time, I became a Courier.

You don't care about any of this. You want me to explain that whole fiasco with Arden and Calabasas and the Decanus. I'm getting to that. Hush.

I was one day contracted, under mysterious circumstances, to deliver a platinum playing chip to somebody on the outskirts of Vegas. I poked around for a bit, trying to figure out why someone would pay me for such a little job. Because, you see, a dangerous job has all of it's complications lain out in front of you. An innocuous job is much, much worse. No job is innocuous, really.

After some digging around, I discover, to my complete lack of surprise, that the other guy who was to take the job turned it down. Obviously, someone knew more about it than I did. He turned out to have totally vanished right after that. He had probably died, for all I knew.

I decided to take it, but not without any help. I set out across the river, to Legion land, and

/END TEXT

PROGRAM ABORTED FOR CRYOCYCLE. HAVE A NICE NAP.


	4. From the Few, One

Chapter 4:From the Few, One.  
_the following information was recovered from an old and worn journal found in a cave on the outskirts of the former Legion territory in New Vegas. It was investigates at the behest of Calabasses, purportedly containing information on Freemont and his accomplice or accomplices. The journal was crudely ingraved (with what appears to be a sort of skinning knife) with the name "Clifton", otherwise known as "Decanus Saxeus". Saxeus has been implicated with aiding and abbetting some of Fremont's most infamous crimes. All data, including sundry grammatical errors, has been reproduced faithfully._  
Meet man today. Large gun. Bright light. I do not understand. Others agree. Ceasar say he be okay. I trust Ceasar, but not this man. He call himself Fremont.  
Ceasar tell me today that I go with Fremont. I do not want to. I go anyway. No one do not listen to Ceasar.  
Fremont be very mean. He insult the way I speak. I do not understand. He be make me write this every day to help learn. I try.  
I ask Fremont why I be with him. He tell me it be a trade with Ceasar. I be protecting him while he "does your boss a big favor". I do not understand. He do not tell me the favor.  
Raiders attack. I break them. Fremont say he is impressed. He say "you might be more useful than you seem. Just a little. " I do not understand.  
Fremont say we be going to big light city. I be afraid of it. It have a bad feeling. Caesar have always say not to do things there. Fremont say "there are exonerating circumstances". Why do not I understand?  
Big robot at big door. He do not let us in. Fremont say "I will attempt to reprogrammed this. You will attempt to find a way to get in. Check the local shops." I ask him how spell that. He get very angrey. Takes book.  
- _the following is in a markably different handwriting._  
I inform the brute that I will be reading this and teaching him how to speak descent English. That's a lie. Sending him on a wild goose chase should buy me enough time to convert a few of the natives to join me. You see, I will rule this city one day soon, just as surely as Mister House does now. Alas, more information will have to wait until my memoir.


	5. From Nothing, Tire Irons

Calabasas. Calabasas, Calabasas, Calabasas. He's a freak. There's no beating around the bush with that one.

"Hey, you're unarmed, yeah?" He asked. I gestured to my unclothed figure.

"Yup. The vast rolls of my elaborate clothing allows me to conceal hundreds of thousands of weapons." I replied sarcastically. Calabasas frowned.

"Well, I'm not about to let you stroll into an area occupied by a bunch of psychopathic morons unarmed. We should probably turn back." He said, spinning on his heels. I grabbed the collar of his terrible uniform.

"Watch and learn, asshole." I said, grinning in a way guaranteed to piss him off. As he stood by the walkway, shaking his head, I strolled confidently up to the hotel. I got maybe ten meters in before some asshole ran up to me, waving a tire iron and screaming like his crotch was on fire. When he was close enough, I grabbed his arm and punched him in the face. He fell on the floor and I proceeded to kick the ever loving crap out of him.

"Oi! Lady! I think he's dead! You can stop now!" Calabasas called, jogging over to me. Good, I thought. He didn't want me tenderizing the corpse, so clearly _he_ wasn't a cannibal. He had a point. As much as I wanted to break his body into a thousand pieces, I also needed my new clothings to be in three pieces, minimum. Reluctantly, I stopped kicking him and proceeded to strip him to the barest necessary for modesty. I donned my new clothings, surprisingly modest for their vast leather content. While it wouldn't protect me much from the various stabs of wastelanders, hopefully it would be better than hair. I reluctantly picked up the tire iron. It was a little short on cutting edges for me, but I had a couple small scratches on my knuckles that were starting to be slightly annoying and anything would be better than that. I looked at Calabasas, bradishing my tire iron like a grand sword.

"What was that about needing to be armed? Let's stop in the casino first, grab a couple drinks." I said. He shrugged reluctantly. It wasn't more than four steps before some guys started shooting at us. Cal pulled out a pistol and tried to hit them, but the bullets went everywhere. God he's a wimp. Can't hold a gun for the life of him. I charged a big scary black guy over by the entrance to the hotel. When I exited the effective range of his shitty peashooter, he pulled out another tire iron. God! Where do these fuckers get all these tire irons? Anyway, I drove mine through his skull. He screamed, but I just laughed and laughed and laughed. Honestly, I kind of scared myself. With my Herculean strength, I toted the corpse to the door of the casino. Cal was already there, a bag of loot over his chest.

"Hey, Stormtrooper. How'd that go for you." I said, smirking. He groaned.

"Fuck you. Let's go in, see if they have a room for rent, or at least somewhere we can divvy up the spoils of war." He said. I nodded and we walked in. I saw a disgruntled man with some welding goggles (or similar) around his neck. A flicker of recognition passed through my mind.

"Hey, Cal. Go ahead, try to find a room or whatever. I've got some stuff to settle." I said, tossing him the corpse. He visibly staggered under its weight because dear God his muscles are like... noodles, or something. He laboriously hauled the limp body towards some weird robot.

"Uh, Mister Johnson?" I said warily. I didn't remember anything messed up about him, so I was a bit worried about what his secret was. Because, clearly, he has a secret. Everyone has a secret. He peered at me inquisitively. "I used to work for you? I'll have you know I got shot in the head over a package you had me deliver!"

"Oh really? Do you have a delivery order?" He said.

"It was a snowglobe." I replied.

"Oh. It's one of those. There's a fella on the outskirts of New Vegas that orders those about once a week. Don't know why you got shot for it."

"Look, there was a guy in a checkered suit there. He was the one who shot me. You know anything about that?"

"They were in town a while ago-"

"Don't need the homespun mannerisms. Do you know where they went?" I asked. Mister Johnson scowled.

"No."

"Do you know anyone who does?"

"Yes. Deputy Beagle was scouting him and his cronies-"

"Where is he?"

"The Gangsters have him in the old hotel. If you could get him out..."

"Thank you, sir. When this is all over, I'm going to demand recompense." I said, sauntering over to the old car as Johnson looked at me, slack jawed. Cal waved me over to some roulette tables, where the stripped corpse and all his items were displayed. Grotesquely. "You got off to this, didn't you?" I asked. He narrowed his eyes.

"Can we just examine the loot, Miss Arden?"

"Fine by me. Let's see here..." I said. Some caps, miscellaneous bits of clothing, a few sticks of dynamite, a nice 9mm pistol... but most preminatly was a beautiful switchblade. Jet black handle, shining blade (probably some silver mixed in there), just the right weight...

"I want the switch." I said definitively. "Fuck everything else." Cal shrugged.

"Alright, I'll take the clothes and patch up the bullet holes in our gear, take the pistol so I can hit the broad side of a barn, sell the dynamite... Are you even listening?" He orated. Fucking orated.

"I get the switch." I insisted.

"Why would I want a switch. I would have to get close enough that my fragile ribs would be bruised by close physical contact."

"Oh, and I get a stick of dynamite." I said. I had plans for it.

"Gah, sure. I'll be right back." Cal said, walking outside. I ogled the switchblade, cleaning some gross stringy man-flesh off with some of the ugly rags the dead guy had been wearing. Bleh, no taste in clothings. I looked at it, and decided that it's name was Diana. It would go with Ted, my much abused and unloved tire iron. Cal stomped back into the room a moment afterwards. He had a very displeased look on his pale, waif-like face.

"Ridiculous. The blackjack tables aren't open until someone saves the town. Fucking amateurs." He spat.

"Calm down, cowboy. Now, the second you finish patching our clothings up, we're going to kill all those fashion impaired assholes holed up in the hotel and end their miserable lives once and for all! Are you with me?" I said, standing on the roulette table and also inadvertently the dead guy's ribs.

"Okay." Cal said.


	6. From Switchblades, Decapitation

Arden. She's something. I would like to clarify that I actually do not "get off" to dead people. I eat them.

We strode confidently through the doors of the Bison Steve, dodging a hail of lead from the guards posted on the collapsed roller coaster. I made sure to commit this fortification to my memory. Powder Gangers, with pistols, couldn't hit us at twelve yards. NCR troopers, the ones who were stronger than myself, with sniper rifles? Very efficient defense. I wondered if Primm would warrant the installation of several mounted machine guns pointing east. If the Legion marched through here, we should be able to picked them off pretty easily. This was why I went with Arden. The annexation of Primm would prove very, very useful in the warding off of the Legion. To do that, though, someone would have to actually get off their ass and do something.

Two men wielding 9mm's greeted us inside Bison Steve. Arden rolled over a counter to our right, cowering. I rolled my eyes, and drew my trusty 12.7. I then realized that my new 9mm would be better, as I could actually hit with it. I pulled it out of my pack, taking gunfire the whole time. God did that smart. I didn't take any direct hits, obviously, as that would likely cause my death. But several shots grazed me, or struck my metal chest guard. Brusing and bleeding, I activated my Pip-boy's automatic aiming feature. I loved that thing. Traded a months worth of rations for it, but I didn't mind. Again, I eat people. The autotarget aimed for the head and pasted brains on the walls of the sleazy hotel. Arden, recovering from her attack of cowardice, signaled for me to wait while she scoped out the hotel. A friend of the two dead guys greeted her. She tore him to pieces so quickly I failed to notice it happening. Literally, tore him to pieces. His head was no longer connected to his bleeding torso. I couldn't believe it, being as the switchblade's cutting edge was not as long as the man's neck. Arden pat him down for weaponry.

"Son of a fuck, another tire iron." she said. "He has some sham NCR cash, you want it?"

"Yes." I said.

"Excellent." She replied. We crept down the hallway, until we came to a large metal service door. "Watch a master at work." She procured a bobby pin. "Eh, do you have a screwdriver?"

"Of course I have a screwdriver." I replied. Have to keep weapons at optimal performance.

"Toss it over, would you kindly?" She asked. I obliged.

"Where did you get that bobby pin from?" I queried.

"Do you really want to know?" She chuckled, smirking the smirk that she smirk when she wants to get on my nerves. Upon seeing my aghast expression, she snorted and said "Was on that dead guy's shirt. Keep your mind out of the gutter."

A few seconds later, we were in a service entrance to the kitchen. There was a convict patrolling that area, but Arden rushed him and hacked a few limbs off. Switchblades really ought not to be that effective. Inside the kitchen proper, there was a man tied up on the floor.

"Beagle!" Arden shouted. I put a finger to my lips.

"You have a terribly abrasive personality. Let me handle this." I whispered. Arden shrugged and let me approach Beagle. "Hello, sir. I am Calabasas, of the NCR. If you come with me, I can promise you safe escort out of the-" I said, before Arden slapped me in the face.

"What he meant to say was, 'we won't end your tiny pointless existance if you help us clear out the hotel'." Arden interjected.

"What I actually mean is that we will help you out if you come with me. Nothing more, nothing less." I said, pushing her out of the way.

"I will go with you as soon as you undo these ropes, thank you kindly." He said.

"Hand me your switchblade." I said to Arden.

"No." She spat.

"Seriously?" I said incredulously.

"Diana is mine. Get your own." She said. I shrugged, and removed the scissors from my repair kit, using them to remove the ropes from Beagle's wrists.

"Well, thanks for that." He said, beginning to head down the service entrance.

"Wait!" Arden cried. "What about that guy with the suit?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about!" He exclaimed.

"Fuck!" Arden cried, kicking the sink.

"What? Who was that?" A gravelly voice called.

"Arden. That was terrible and dumb of you. Don't do it again." I said.

"Sorry." She said un-apologetically. The owner of the voice, a tall, pale man with a bloody NCR helmet and a...

"Oh Christ. He has a fucking Incinerator." Arden said. He proceeded to fire the Incinerator directly at Arden. She dived out of the way as the resulting fireball singed her ridiculous hair.

"You jerkoff!" Arden shouted. I drew my pistol and turned on the aiming function. Four shots to the head, I figured, ought to do it. It didn't.

"What?" Arden shouted. "He stays upright through four headshots, but I get one and go into a coma? Fuck that!" She said, running towards him with a ridiculous speed and tearing his head off with judicious application of switchblade. The severed body part sailed off in an arc.

"Well." I said. "Let's loot this one, shall we?" Arden simply panted in response. "Leather armor, exceptionally well made, some cigs, a tire iron. That's it."

"Another tire iron?" Arden said. "Where do they keep getting these things from?"

"Cars."

"I have never actually seen a tire iron in a car before."

"You've got a point. Do you want the armor? I have to stay in uniform all the time."

"Don't mind if I do." Arden said, picking up the armor.

"Let's bounce."

Beagle was waiting right outside. He mentioned something about needing a sheriff.

"I don't understand. Aren't you the sheriff now?" Arden said.

"Sheriffdom isn't like presidency. To answer your question, I'm sure I could convince the NCR top brass to send some more troops down here and annex the town." I said. "Shit I wasn't supposed to tell yout that, was I?"

"No, you probably weren't." Beagle said before strolling off to his house like the smug jerk he was.

"So, I'm going to go to the Mojave Outpost and talk to the people there. Would you like to come with me?" I asked Arden. She laughed at me.

"No. I'm going to get drunk. Then, you know, take it from there."

"So this is the last time we're ever going to see each other." I said, suddenly forlorn. Arden snorted.

"Please. You really think that's even possible? Of course we're going to rub shoulders again. I mean, you're going to have to come back her with the rest of the troops, and I'm going to be getting as hammered as possible while that happens. Mojave Outpost is like, what, three hours round trip? See you in a bit." She said.


End file.
